“Son, you know I wasn’t in the service. In this respect, I’m sure you’ll reach high places. We’ll be victorious too as our fathers were.”
“What are you talking about, dad?”
“I am talking about victory... and that’s victory with a capital V, like in the Second World War. This time the Ortega’s will have their share of glory too.”
Manuel didn't say anything because he didn't have any idea what his dad was going on about.
Alvarez, Lowell, the Laotian civilians: that’s what war meant to Ortega. He couldn’t imagine how victory could be sweet if he thought about what was actually happening over there. Extreme violence and inevitable mistakes resulted in death. He knew his father was talking about that sort of glory. He didn’t understand or realize there was no such thing and that it wasn’t like that at all.
Victory?
What victory?
The border Laos and Cambodia shared was a net at best.
Sure, SOG teams destroyed enemy outposts but at what cost? The risks were too high and the losses even higher.
In less than twenty-four hours, at best, those very same outposts were back and operational as though nothing of the kind had happened. All the while, no one was able to figure out how the VCs managed such efficiency. Where did all that money, men and means come from? From Russia?
Of course, all those weapons and means came from Russia. It couldn’t have come from anywhere else.
Yet all the men and endless manpower, hadn’t.
The men and the manpower were endless.
Trautman had taught him that there was no point in winning all the field battles if you did nothing to win the war too.
That pretext explained his rational behind pushing everything to its limit right from the very start. The moment you began your first boot camp, they trained you to become ‘political leverage’. Generals had to command better and be smarter about it, otherwise the end was inevitable, and we were the proof.
That’s the motivation at the root of it all – thought Ortega.
That’s the pretext, our justification for doing it.
His father had no way of knowing any of that however. What’s more, Ortega was not avid about explaining it to him either. All things considered, he just couldn’t.
Everything he used to do or knew about regarding Vietnam was classified, and thus not something you make small talk with. He couldn't tell a soul.
“Now you tell me something son, have you ever killed a Vietcong? Have you ever had the chance? Jesus! I still can’t believe it. The service not only decorated my son, he’s good enough to be part of the Special Forces too.
Manuel didn’t say anything.
Actually, he got to his feet and made to leave.
“Hey!” said his father somewhat surprised as he attempted to keep him from going.
“Dad,” Ortega said without looking at him, and for a split second, he wasn’t Manuel Ortega any more.
For a split second, everything had changed. Manuel had undergone a transformation and what prompted it had come out of nowhere. He wasn’t Manuel anymore, on the contrary. He'd turned into Skorpio and had done so in his own home.
With that, he turned to face his father.
His father ever so slightly distanced himself from him.
His son suddenly gave him the idea of being a stray dog with rabies.
“I’ve killed a lot of people, yeah,” Ortega replied to his father’s question staring him right in the face. With that, his brother looked down, and didn't look up again
“I’ve also had to strangle one with my bare hands.”
He watched his father’s expression suddenly grow grave.
His mother, obviously shocked by her son’s revelations, covered her mouth in disbelief.
“Of course you didn’t, dad. None of you do. No one knows fuck all about it here in the US actually. You judge us on daily fucking basis without knowing fuck all about it.”
He saw his father freeze, immobile and his jaw dropped in shock, and his mother followed suit bursting into tears almost instantly.
“Do you want to know something else too?” Manuel asked rhetorically being fully aware his father couldn't speak, much-less answer a question. He couldn't hardly manage a nod.
“He wasn’t a gook either, or whatever you like to call them.”
“He was a God damn’ American.”